


warm ways

by emmamay



Series: i want to be with you everywhere [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Growing Up Together, Kid Fic, M/M, college reddie and their daughter, except that baby is no longer a baby!, just two boys and a baby, the losers club are the best aunt and uncles, the losers club in new york city, warm ways by fleetwood mac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26705167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmamay/pseuds/emmamay
Summary: “Her chair. Her little chair is just so tiny. Her butt is so small that she fits! And she works there. She’s a tiny worker. She’sworking!”Eddie bought their daughter a teeny table for homework, squished sound into the office. Richie can’t stop freaking out over it.“Daddyyy,” All blushy and bashful, she’s busy-bee-ing through a sugar paper masterpiece.Stan is standing in the doorway, behind Richie, lovey laughing over his shoulder with Eddie who’s sat little and cute at his own dandy desk in the corner.“I’m just so proud! She’s so clever!” His head funny flies between them, hands dash dancing, eyes puppy guppy glossed.Stan shuffle saunters in, holding up her picture portrait, kissing her poodle noodle crown. “Richie, theMin her name is a three.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: i want to be with you everywhere [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1943143
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	warm ways

**Author's Note:**

> one (1) person asked for a part two (and that was months ago) so here i am. you don’t have to have read songbird to get the gist of what’s going on here; it’s reddie, in their little apartment in new york, with their kid, and the losers. it’s chaos, all super cuckoo kooky love. songbird is the getting together and teeny newborn stage, still in derry, living with went and mags. so if you want to, it’s always there. if you don’t, that’s okay! if you have, hello again. i hope you ALL enjoy. <3

“ _Daaaddy?_ ”

“ _Mhmm?_ ” Eddie dream drip drawls in the same silly intonation.

“Love, love you.”

Mavis is two and a half, and teeny tot teensy toddling around in a big wide world of cotton cuddle clouds. She’s critter crawl sprawled out over Eddie’s left knee, latched twiddle diddle pinkies and thumbs strung round his raised wrist as he tip tap types away on his laptop. 

He looks down, plain plush lush lovely, with a tickle touch brush to her cherry chin and blip boop bop on the nose. She scrunches her canary cupcake face up in a way that is so _Eddie_ , it makes Richie’s chest squishy squeeze and throat whirly wheeze. Like his heart’s fiddle flying on the string of a bubble balloon up round his ribs and making him float. 

“Love, love _you_ , babyface.” Eddie flick folds his work in half, setting it solid sound on the curly wooden coffee table, even though Richie knows he isn’t half finished. 

“I not a _baby_ , Daddy!” She falls full into his lap, cheeky chastise demeanour of dimples and freckles and two front bunny baby milk teeth. 

“You’re _my_ baby.” Eddie’s palm woolly warm wobbles through her surly curls and over her forehead.

“And you’re Daddy’s baby?”

Eddie grins a gushy blush, silly shaking his head ever so slightly. “Yeah, sure.”

Richie’s watching them from the kitchen, behind the puffy powder blue billow pillow sofa and over a  
mismatched plate of lettuce, strawberries and french fries. Mavis is in a plucky picky stage of rage with food, and they’re taking what they can get. 

Eddie lovey locks his dazed gaze and cradle carries Mavie up and over past the big burrow bookshelf and grass green, rusty orange tufty rugs to the dining table. 

They live in a cracking quaint little knickknacky tacky wacky Manhattan apartment right by a frilly five and dime and two lavender laundromats with flowers at the front door and baby birdie nests in the windows.

The Losers are all cuddle-close by. Bill and Mike in an apartment a bitty block away and Stan, Ben and Bev and their tubby tabby kitty cat Tilly a fifteen-minute walk at the most. They do scrum yum Sunday dinner every week at the Tozier’s and Mavie goes for slumber party sleepovers with her Uncles and Aunt whenever she pretty pleases.

Eddie’s creamy cut jaw rests raspberry sauce sweet in his palm, sat in his ducky yellow sweater with his tucky blondey bangs, candles lit light on the window ledge over the sink making him glisten glimmer glow, watching their Mavis. 

Strawberry pink pucker pouting as ever; eating with her own hands, making conversation. She has been for a long while now, but it remains as wildly whirly wondrous as her first quizzical puzzle piece click quick glances and tugs on their sleeves. 

“Can we feed the fishies dinner, Daddy?” She asks Richie, licky lips and fumble rumble fingertips, dancing in the direction of the five funny goody goldfish; aptly named: Fishy, Fluffy, Daddy, Daddy and Uncle Stan.

“Sure thing, chickadee. Right after you finish yours.” He smudge rub squishes the baby pudge on her knee, and Eddie beams over at them with his head puppy tilted in his hand and the sun in his eyes. 

“Then it’s bath time for Miss Mavie.” He huggy hums, knuckles knocking off the table, Mavis watching his honey hands. She bug blinks up at him round a french fry wrapped in lettuce. 

“Bubbles?”

Richie chimey chuckles and locks an ankle round Eddie’s. 

“All the bubbles you want.” 

Richie’s Dad Guilt is a steady sullen rumpled rampant rush on lazy long school days. He’s one of the youngest in his class, meaning the whole ‘baby and boyfriend at home’ thing is always a real jolly jaw-dropper. He likes it, though. Roly-poly revels in quick pick plucking their sunshiny sheen picture portrait from his wallet to swirl and spill his pride all over.

He has Mondays with Mavis, and Eddie takes Wednesdays. She’s at a ditsy dolly daycare on the days in between, and her Uncle Stan even sometimes picks her up easy early on fun Fridays. When Rich works, Eddie doesn’t, and vice versa. As it always has been, there’s always someone there for Mavis. Richie just never did get over not being tucked tight right by her side. 

He assumes college would be tricky tough enough for any twenty-year-old kid. He _knows it_ , sees his best friends as solid shaky proof. And this whole Dad business is heady hard, especially when you’re still growing up yourself, but he wouldn’t chop or change it for anything. 

Not when Mavis is niggle jiggle giggling, tummy tickles and tippy-toe tootsie wriggles. Not when she’s screaming and crying and cranky and blue. 

He looks down at her, with her cream pie curls and dotty dirty socks and buckle belt shoes, holding his hand like he’ll take her everywhere she needs to go as they cross the road home.

It’s exhilarating, and exasperatingly exhausting, having a teeny real human person you have to make decisions for till they’re big and bold enough to do it by themselves. You wanna be so good, so badly. 

Yet even when you mess up, when the world tilts too far on its antsy axis and you’re scratchy sobbing on the phone to your Mom after accidentally feeding your kid out-of-date instant mash potato for dinner ‘cause your boyfriend’s working and you’re running on three hours sleep, they still look at you the same. Like you’re the Moon. With all the wonder and shine of the stars. Snuggle hugging your ankles and bird peck pokey kissing your shins and falling asleep in your arms because they _know_ you’ll keep them safe. No matter what.

They skip through the threshold hand in hand, after milky melty ice cream cones on the walk home from daycare, screechy singing nasally nonsense, until Rich spots a brown hoodie bear cub cuddled up comfy in the corner of the sofa. Mavis starts tip-toeing with a shushy finger over her lips, struts a mellow march to pin her backpack on her hook above the cubbies between Richie’s and Eddie’s and tuck her shoes away. Clever teeny cookie. 

“Gotta be quiet, Dadd _y_. D _a_ ddy’s _sleeeeepy_.” Her idle inky inflection on her _‘Daddy’_ s is dolly doozy darling. You can tell which of them she’s talking to, or about, by the way her velvet lark voice rises and falls, and elongates her _A_ s or _Y_ s ice cream sparkle sprinkle adorably accordingly. 

She saunters over to Eddie with her strip stripey top pawing over her frumpy fists, sunny sweetly kisses his hand, and vaults up onto the wavy wool blanket by his cheek, laying her own just there, looking right at him.

Richie kicks his sneakers off over by the armchair and crafty climbs up too, legs in a basket by Eddie’s feet, lifting them light to lie limp across his thighs. 

“Daddy, your shoes! You have a cubby for a reason.” She hazy hush singsongs in a pretty peachy perfect whispered Eddie impression. So scary similar it makes Richie snort into his t-shirt and thank the starry heavens above. 

Mavis grows . She’s skippy slippy squirmy, shooting up and up like a sunflower. Cheeky chocolate chip grin and own budding building sweet sense of humour and gaping scooter helmets with click clacks under the cheery chin and tiny thoughts and opinions. 

For her fourth birthday last week, Bill and Mike bought her an outrageous itsy bitsy spider costume. With four fake legs, _long_ legs, which drape and drag across the ground that Eddie’s had to sanitise under specific scrutiny every night because she has refused to take it off.

It’s apparently been a real rumbly controversy at daycare. She keeps running toward other kids and scaring the poor scoundrels soundless. Mags and Went got a kick out of it over videocall last night, though, when six arms (legs) waved wiggly wild at them, the other two tip-tapping the rug in a rattling rabbit thump, bouncing with excitement. 

The thing came complete with a skin-tight spidey-cap, too, obviously, so her catty curls have been plastered plush to her scalp for days on end, and Rich and Eds had to have Maggie tell Mavis that her hair _had_ to be washed. Because four has also itchy inflicted a Daddy Rebellion; most probably influenced subconsciously by her Uncle Stan and his lacklustre of on-the-surface respect for them, and she’s getting a real giggle out of just _not_ doing anything she is asked; hence the seven-day spider-suit stunt. 

Getting her down for bed has also been proving a ticky tricky task. She puppy eye pleads for a hundred stories with Richie’s Voices and obnoxious actions and all, and wants Eddie to sit at the foot of her bed the whole night, as though he has absolutely nowhere else to be. 

It’s just gone eleven when he shuffle snuggles in by Richie with a kiss to the jaw and head resting raspberry ripple pillow-soft sweet on his shoulder. Richie slip drip drops off so quickly, silent and sound. 

He’s floating out of a dream round the bend of deep sleep come two o’clock, when he’s awoken dart sharp snippy by a fuzzy furry figure in the doorway lit hauntingly hazy from behind. 

“Holy shi— _moly!_ ” He screams, suddenly sweaty, heart batter bouncing loud and lumpy in his chest. Eddie is doozy woozy beside him, one eye cracked open, mutter murmur mumbling questions meekly. 

“Dad, you were gonna say a swea _w_ y word!” The baby spider in the doorway sings, seemingly wide awake, and somehow back in that godawful get-up. 

“No, I wasn’t!” Richie retaliates, because who would he be, if not bickering with his four-year-old in matching adoring accusatory tones. He’s clutching his neck and still breathing bulky and bubbly and staring only at babble bobbling antenna and gangly wrangly legs.

“Were too!” Mavis points a funny finger at him, and Eddie winces at the shout. He’s still snoozy and half dazey dozing and staring at her shadow with one bleary tired eye, just coaxing her over with the hand that isn’t wrapped round Richie. 

Mavis creepy-crawly clambers up and over Richie, soft stroke poking him in both eyes in quick succession with a foot-long spider leg, and starfish sprawls out sound in between them.

“G’night, Daddies. Love, love you.” She seems to be falling asleep already, teeny tot head lazy leaning over to Eddie’s pillow. 

“Love, love you too, bug.” Richie rumble tumble chuckles, catching Eddie’s drowsy dopey dream face still small skim stroking her temple in a tiny kiss. He takes his hand, hushed and tight, over Mavis’ knobbly knees.

Fatherhood, for Richie, is snuggles and hugs and baby buggy love. It’s snow sprinkled icing sugar dusting nose freckles, and sticky marshmallow hands. It’s _‘Daddy, the Splish Splash song!’_ every bath time, and always one more riddle, or one more rhyme. It’s one baby bird, in a yarny yellow blanket, who makes time stand still. And watching Eddie, _his Eddie_ , always his Eddie, with their Mavis. Gentle and wise and giddy and quick and everything Richie has ever known him to be. The way she looks up at him through cotton clouds with star-shine eyes, and sweater-sleeve-yanking yearns for him when he’s gone. The same way Richie feels. The way they look at one another over her pinky piggy-tail head, like magic has come to life. 

Richie watches Eddie buckle her shoes, squeaky lemon squeezy sheeny clean. Twiddle with her dinky dungarees, and run a finger round the cutie cut curls that cuddle her cheery chatty cheeks. He wishes they could burrow bundle her up in the nest they’ve always known for forever; she looks entirely too small for school. But Richie knows she’s ready. 

He feels like he only knew strawberry sucking, first-word bubble babbling, waddle toddling Mavis of her Grandparent’s house in Derry just a flick flash minute ago. Now she’s rainbow bandaids on ruddy duddy knees from dancing around the living room, opinions and interests and booster seat size building in the back of the car. 

She’s ready. Probably more socially acclimatised than any other thumb sucker in her class, too; with the Losers as her family. 

Stan and Ben have had her reading baby bird books and poppy pure poetry since before she could say their names. She’s got Stan’s wisdom, and Ben’s compassion. Beverly’s the main, star-studded, sweet-souled lady of her life. Mavis has her shy-shelled confidence. She’s got Bill’s patience; as he reads to her, slowly and surely. And Mike’s warmth; in her eyes, like his, and her heart. 

But she’s Eddie through and through. Every all-encompassing pitter-patter from Eddie’s soul trickle tatter etch-a-sketched itself into her’s. The fire, the wit, the sea-shore settled solace and giddy giggles like a cream dream banana split. Same scrunch of the nose and round the moon mile eyes, same whole-world-wide gaze on Richie, to laugh or cheeky chastise. 

Richie sees all the great in her he’s always seen in Eddie. It is always the easiest thing in the world to love every itty bit of her, because that same love is all he has ever known. 

He loves himself more now, too. It’s impossible to avoid when she’s crackalacking jokes, with that unbridled Tozier charm. The same sweetie tweety freckles on her shimmy shoulders and up her arms. He sees himself when she’s red raw restless, funky monkey singy swinging from the sofas and through the hall. Marking her hearty heady height, ticking tall against the kitchen wall. When she’s crazy clingy, and in her loopy laugh, when she’s running like a string bean, and making soapy sudsy moustaches in the boppy bubble bath. 

She’s their sunshine shooting star Songbird, and much more than ready to fly. Richie knows in his heart, that hers is gonna be just fine.

“Hey, Uncle Benny! Are you okay?” Mavis and her patchwork packed lunchbox crunch over the gravel and grass to a teary, weary Ben.

Bev is laughing light and lovely at him, and kissing his pink puff cheek. “Uncle Benny is just so proud of you, chicky.” She rumbly rubs two fingers round her teensy ear. “We all are.” 

Mavis wraps her little preppy polo shirt arms right round Ben’s calf, smooshy face up against his jeans. She looks bustly bright up to Stan for a high five and a _‘You’ve got this, kid.’_ A big bear Bill hug, and swirly spin round twice from Mike.

She’s back by Richie and Eddie soon enough, and Eds breathes big as he cuddle crouches down to the green ground. “Okay, you’ve your pencil-case; in the front pouch with the little purple zip, okay? And your water bottle in the big bit at the back here, and ruler in the side by the-“

“Daddy, I know.” Mavis squish squeezes his hand in both of her own. “You told me this morning. I remember, I p _w_ omise.” 

“Sorry, baby. Daddy’s babbling, huh?” 

Richie watches his eyes wash water up, looking at Mavis through his flutter butter lashes and smiling small and steady.

“Yeah,” She giggle niggle nods, giddy grinny, and twitch tosses her arms round his neck. “That’s okay. That’s my favourite when you talk. M’gunna miss you.” 

Eddie swallows and pulls back blush plush to watch her in wonder a quick while longer. “I’m gonna miss _you._ ” His wrist dash dances to swipe swish a tear from his cheek quick so she doesn’t see, and he smiles big and wide and wobbly. 

“Love you, Daddy.” Mavis kisses his nose, and right where the tear fell. 

“Love you so much.” Their hands tug tight once more, and Mavis fist-bumps Richie while Eddie slips into his side, bunny biting his lip and looking down at her.

Rich lifts her up in his free arm, coddle cuddle snuggling Eddie sweet and warm and well in the other. “Well! Have a super swell day, little birdie.”

“I will, Daddy.” The billow breeze trickle tickles at her kitty curls, eyelashes cute kissing flurry freckles on her cheeks and little lips smiling small. 

“Be yourself. Keep shiny smiling. Tell some jokes! Knock ‘em dead.” He knuckle knocks her temple soft, watches the Losers waddle waltz closer round in a wide warmth. 

“Gotcha. I’ll get a head start!” She glee gushy grins, twisty turning in Richie’s arms. “Uncle Mikey, why did the broom get a bad grade in school?”

Mike’s head tilt lilts and he scratches at a patch. “I don’t know, Mavie. Why _did_ the broom get a bad grade in school?”

“It was always _sweeping_ in class!” Mavis silly squeals, gaze fly flitting fast to Richie’s to check she nailed the joke. 

The Losers are all cracking up, big tear-torn wonder-worn eyes, star super staring at her. Eddie’s squish squeezing his hand tight with all his might and shimmy shaking his fuzzy head into Rich’s sweater soft shoulder.

“Hey, Aunt Bevvie!” Mavis canary calls from her perch on her father’s forearm. “What’s the King of all the school supplies?”

“Beats me, Mavie!” Bev’s kinda crying, but just smiling really runny ruddy wide, and gnawing on the sides of her lips and holding Ben’s hand hope-held hard.

“The _ruler!_ ” The little lark squeaky creaks, to the big birds in their puffy puddles. Richie’s gargling a guffaw round a sob, and kissing her face seven times over. He watches Bill scrub rub tug at his eyes and sniff snuffle funny frumpy, looking away, over his shoulder.

“Love you, Daddies.” Mavis’ backpack padded arms plush crush round both Rich and Eds’ necks. Richie huddle hears and frilly feels Eddie breathe big into her hair. 

“Love you, bug.” He kisses. Drops her dolly doozy to the ground in a humdrum of giggles and buckles and school bells as she leaves the Losers standing there gloopy gloomy to the sunshine sight of whirly wings just taking off.

“She’s gonna be just fine.” Mike wise whispers. They all believe it. 

Sometimes it’s damn dull huckleberry hard. When you’re still growing up yourself, but in charge of this small slippy dippy dandelion; blowing in the wind, telling time and sticking to your sweaters. You’ve got to make them well-rounded, and Sunday-hug-toasty, and polite and funny and cookie clever. On rainy days, on supermarket tantrum tear track days, when big boy essays are due and there are baby-teeth chip check dentist appointments on the same dicey dense days as finals and the thunder pitter-patter crack slap bangs bouncy off her bedroom window and she doesn’t sleep till four, and you’ve gotta be up at six.

Today, Richie totally tense testy tanked an interview for a post-college job. They’re all in their final flower flourish year. Eddie’s at Columbia majoring in Sociology. He wants to be a journalist, and already got an internship for the _New York Times_ in his back picky plucked pocket. He’s smart and he’s sure and he’s the Sun and Richie’s pride shines with the stars and the moonlight. 

Rich is finishing off Film and Television at Tisch. He doesn’t even know if he knows where he wants to be. Here, obviously; at huggy home with his snuggy family. But out-with? In the big buggy world? 

He wants Father Time to speed it up, but slow low down. He _wants_ so badly. With his whole heart. Even things he is not yet sure of. Things locked up in the sky. 

He feels silly selfish, guppy guilty, but he wants a chance to be the kid again. He wants his worries tied up in a knuckle tugged knot of string and sorrows and whisked away in a brown paper parcel. His hopes dunk dumped in sugar and glitter and as wide as the world and sitting settled on a cloud, ready to touch when he is ready to fly. 

His frazzle dazzle head is in Eddie’s crisscross lap, heart in his hands. The living room is Fall fire warm and cosy sock comfy and a big blanket of soft and calm. 

Mavis is in her bedroom. A mellow mousy voice butter utter muttering songs of baby-doll ditsy play-time nonsense floating out from under her door and down the hall. 

Eddie’s hot chocolate hands are in his hair and he’s marshmallow mushing and sweet-nothing gushing and tip-tap touching along Richie’s eyebrows and round and down his ticky temples.

“How are you now?” He asks him, in the sunset somber solace. Round his legs, in his arms. 

“M’kay,” Richie replies. Kick tick shifts his soft socked ankles under the frumpy fray splayed edge of the wooly worn throw strewn across the back of the sofa. 

Eddie tuft tucks his hair back behind his ears, over and over, blunt berry round nails kiss at the pink skin. “M’kay.”

Richie’s hands starfish stipple up over Eddie’s dusty blonde tan taut thighs. “Scared’m not good enough.” 

Eddie sighs. Richie’s head on his chest is heavy and held and he feels the breath tickle trickle down through his spine.

“ _I know_ , Rich. I know, baby. But one rainy day isn’t a ruined Summer.” Eddie’s index finger is titter tatter pitter-patter pottering around the silky space between his eyes before his nose. 

And he’s smidge smooching his eyelids and fingertips and making lasagna and holding his hand across the dinky dining table and wiping Mavis’ sauce stained chin and laughing with him and making everything feel okay again. Twist turn yarn wrapping him up in knit knot blankets and stirring hot chocolate and cuddling up on the sofa with him and baby Mavie and rocking him to sleep.

So yeah, sometimes he feels silly sheen subpar; he couldn’t tell you how to correctly fold a shirt or lump a pair of socks together, or even how long the laundry has to stay in the dryer till it’s clean crisp toasty tucked-in-sheet snuggle warm. Just last week he trip slip dipped from his skateboard flat out onto the sidewalk right round the block and gleam-gaze grazed his chin and palms so bad he had to run home for Eddie to lather slather lap him up in special green cream and bandaids quick before class. 

But he could tell you his daughter’s favourite cartoon characters, in order from most to least creaky croaky squeak squawk voices. And which ones are most like Eddie, and how those always seem to be Mavis’ favourites. He can make his little girl’s day, just by walking in the door with a loopy goofy grin on his face. Dance with her after dinner, and sing her to sleep. He can make his boyfriend gushy hush blush giggle with a pokey peeked out tongue and smoosh smooch him on the sofa and chase race him to the bathroom to brush their teeth side by side. 

So sure, he might flop fail at an interview, and for a teeny touch of time it may _feel_ like it’s the end of the world, but he’s always falling back into a bubble blanket of buttercream balconied balmy buggy love. 

For all the soggy sad bad brain rain, Richie gets Summers in _tenfold_. He’s got Mavis, and she’s the sunniest honeybunniest. He’s got Eddie, and he’s Sundays in a person. And they’re shooting stars, and Richie can wish on them and _know_ everything will be okay. 

“ _Her chair_. Her little chair is just so tiny. Her butt is so small that she fits! And she works there. She’s a tiny worker. She’s _working!_ ”

Eddie bought Mavis a teeny table for homework, squished sound into the office. Richie can’t stop freaking out over it. 

“ _Daddyyy,_ ” All blushy and bashful, she’s busy-bee-ing through a sugar paper masterpiece. 

Stan is standing in the doorway, behind Richie, lovey laughing over his shoulder with Eddie who’s sat little and cute at his own dandy desk in the corner. 

“I’m just so proud! She’s so clever!” His head funny flies between them, hands dash dancing, eyes puppy guppy glossed.

Stan shuffle saunters in, holding up Mavie’s picture portrait, kissing her poodle noodle crown. “Richie, the _M_ in her name is a three.”

“A math genius! A tiny phenomenon!” Richie rejoices, palms pushing off from the doorframe to rest his forehead flat against it. Stan flap slaps him on the back of the neck with the doodle drawing and Eddie’s giggling golly in the corner. Richie’s smile squish squashes against the white wood. 

It’s thrill trill Thanksgiving Thursday and they’ve snap swapped out their usual Sunday dinner for tonight at the Tozier huggy home household. The rest of the Losers and Stan’s sweet soft lavender laundry girlfriend Patty and Tilly tabby cat are mulling around out front in the apartment. 

Mavis’ dribble scribble is, adorably aptly, a turkey, that’s been scurry shaped round her own hand. She had called Eddie in to _‘help’_ , but very probably would not let him anywhere near the thing; just liked the moral support and attention. Exactly like Eddie.

“We can put it up on the refrigerator, right?” She curious quizzy tizzy tugs on Richie’s sleeve, as Eddie slip shuts the office door and trudges behind them, Stan sliding off into the living room.

“Sure thing, shortcake.” Rich tumble mumbles, swinging a singing giggle wriggle monkey Mavis up to pin it up right there, pride of place. Right by a silly string of rainbow alphabet magnets spelling out her name (no numbers involved), a polaroid picture of the three of them on Eddie’s twenty-third birthday, and a sun-bleached sticky-note reading _‘Rich, remember to_ fully _close the refrigerator door.’_

Richie keeps jester joking that he’s doubled down on dinner _and_ entertainment. He’s tweaking the turkey, sifting through the stuffing, trying to make Eddie smile in that starry way of his. Eds has plop placed himself down on the opposite counter from where Richie’s cooking, Mavis standing twiddling her tiny thumbs in between his knees. 

“Smells so good, sweetheart.” He nuzzle muzzle muses, fingertips swirl twirling through the birdie curls below. Mavis leans lax into his hands, leaning lovey dove hug into his legs. She doesn’t do afternoon naps anymore, now she’s at big school, but she’s been so jumpy jolly excited, and running and bundling bouncy bright around in her sparkly tights all day long.

Rich scrunches his nose and pecks prim at Eddie’s, passing him on his way to the sink, squidgy swish squishing Mavie’s baby cheek. 

Bev soon comes softly strolling in to help Richie with the dream cream pumpkin pie they’ve been drooling over since last Thanksgiving at her place, and Eddie whisks Mavis off with him to the sofa for a cosy cuddle and little down-time before dinner. 

She’s super shiny golly good as new by the time Mike and Bill have set their own folding dining table up by Richie and Eddie’s to make room for everybody, on Ben’s stalky shoulders like the short-stemmed sunflower she is, palms pressed gentle under his jaw. 

Naturally, she wants to sit right by her Daddies, but orchestrates the remainder of the seating arrangements of her own accord, too. Uncle Stan right across from her, Uncle Mike by Richie so he can still sneak her extra dessert. Tilly tabby cat sits snug at her tweety tot feet. 

She’s so little, sitting there with her mushroom head bopping up just over the table-top. Eddie tucks his arms round her teeny torso and she hugs him like a sloth as he pat puffs a purple patch pillow atop her chair to make her a touch tad taller. 

The room is warm and well-loved. Richie pesky peeky pokes giggle gags at Stan and loopy laughs with Bill and kisses Eddie’s hand over Mavis’ lap and she fingertip taps his cheek and circles Eds’ wrist. Everybody’s scurrying for second helpings when Ben begins the gushing of gratitude. 

Rich thinks soft and still about what he is grateful for. Through Ben’s beautiful gold-spun spiel and Stan’s short, stout and profound puddle. Bev makes their eyes all weary watery, in her brave bustling way. Bill‘s all metaphors and similes and smiles, and Mike’s as worn and wise as a Sunday at sixteen in his Pops’ farmyard barn. Patty says she’s grateful to have been welcomed into something so extraordinarily special, here, with all of them, and Richie’s soul sends a hug to his heart. 

“I’m thankful for my family. You guys.” He makes a solid start, looking up from his plate with helter-skelter eyes that try to meet everybody’s. “I never thought that _this_ would be my life.” His gaze gloopy glazes over onto Mavis. “But man, it’s better than anything I ever could’ve imagined.” 

Bev’s head leans velvety onto Ben’s shoulder, and she’s watching Rich with this goosebumpy lovely look that makes that hug on his heart squash squeeze a little tighter. He swivels to face his Eddie with a hand round the back of Mavis’ chair, her little head following his own to look to him too. 

“Eds, you make my world turn, simple as that. You always have done, and I truly, seriously, honestly love you more and more every single day. My heart only keeps getting bigger.” He’s dopey long lopsidedly smiling. It really is the easiest thing in the world, loving Eddie. Soaring through a cloudless sky, wind whisking off his wings, only getting higher. He’s looking at Richie like nothing’s ever gone wrong in the world, and Rich wants to make him feel like that forever.

“And we—we have this itty bitty bird. This tiny little person, all ours.” He mushy marvels down at Mavis, who’s looking up between the two of them like they’re the Sun and the Moon, both her hands held in Eddie’s on his lap. “And she’s all the best bits of you and even me, and, my gosh, every one of you guys too.” His eyes spin swirl round the cottony carousel of Losers; all shiny, all bright. 

“Mavie, I’m thankful to all the shiny stars for you, babyface. And Daddy, and your Uncles and Aunts, and Grammy and Grandpa too.” He holds her pinky pie puff ears between his palms and pecks a pressed kiss to the top of her head.

Her eyes crunch silly, funny twitchy nose crinkle like Eddie’s, bunny bashful and beautiful. She covers his knuckles with her own pretty pearly paws. “And ice cream cake, Dad? You _really love_ ice cream cake.” 

Richie tummy turny chuckles a huff guffaw and soft shakes then nods his head. “And ice cream cake.” 

Eddie gumdrop grins at them so wobbly wide and sighs sugar-sweet before his turn, kissing Rich’s fingers niggle nifty quick where they dance dangle by his face over the chair. 

“You guys are the only family I’ve ever known.” He buggy bites on a shrug smile at the side of his lip. “I’m thankful for what we have together every single day of my life.” Richie watches Ben shift and swallow, blinky bleary eyes, and thinks he won’t be too far behind him.

“Imagine telling the kid with the fanny pack he’d be living in New York City, with his best friends. And the one with the glasses would _finally_ be his boyfriend, and they’d have a _baby_ together.” He’s smiling his starry way. It’s taking over his whole face.

“A baby who isn’t even a baby anymore. She’s a whole kid herself, and she’s everything wonderful in the world in one little human.” His pebble pillow fingertips crush mush her darling dumpling ditsy cheeks as she giggles a silly symphony. “And that’s thanks to you, Rich. Everything in my life is thanks to you. You’ve given me love to last your whole lifetime, and I’ll spend all of mine giving you everything I’ve got. All the love in my heart. I swear it.” 

He twinkle twiddle twists their pinky fingers together and kisses Rich’s seven times over. Lucky number. Richie stares through green grass and stained glass and double rainbows and everything that’s good and pure and beautiful in the world over to Eddie with his wispy wave hair and soft stroke knobbly knuckle on their daisy petal daughter’s temple as he asks her; “You wanna give it a try, bug?”

She critter climbs up onto Eddie’s knees, cheek to his chest, and takes all Richie’s ten tappy fingers into crochet with her own.

“Well, I’m thankful for my D _a_ ddy, and Dadd _y_. And how they always take care of me and each other. And make me laugh till I snort like a piggy.” She burrow bundles close cuddle up into Eddie’s armpit, sudden shy spout from gathering the whole room’s adoring attention.

“I love them lots and lots and very much.” She speaks shuffle snuggly into his knit knot sweater and mashes Richie’s hands up in her little own. “And my Aunt Bevvie and Auntie Pattycakes, and all my Uncles and Grammy and Grandpa too. And ice cream cake.” 

The room is a blubber rubber rounded centrefold of care. Mellow yellow lighting and pumpkin pie puff lips and kisses on jaws and palms and cheeks and cat cuddles round the feet. The people who make up his own funny version of family. That unconventional, unconditional love. The people who built their houses in his heart. 

They shack up come late, but only for the night. Rich knows that before the end of the week, Bill will come wonder wandering over when he’s lost inspiration inklings in his own apartment, or Bev will pretend she forgot her dessert dish, just to watch cartoons with Rich, Eds and Mavis. Ben will call Eddie in the morning, just because, and Stan and Patty will swing by with coffee for the boys and a muffin for the little lady ‘cause they were at a dandy quaint coffee shop in the neighbourhood. Mike will come to bring Bill home and stay for dinner, then they’ll all end up with an invite, back there, Sunday night, even though they were just here tonight. 

For now, Richie lays low in the cosy quiet, before chaos resumes once more. He cradle carries one baby bird into a nest of woollen blankies and stuffed animals with a poke peck on the head and stroke of the brow and flies back into the living room to collect another. Takes him to bed, into his arms, and thanks his lucky stars.

Some days, Mavis is the swash and backwash of a Summer night’s sea. Gentle and easygoing and moving and free-flowing as the tide. Others, she’s scratchy screaming; ‘Uncle Stan is _dead!_ ’ And Richie is slippy sock slide trip tumbling into the living room with his whole heart pumping ballistic in his throat and stomach at his feet only to discover that she means _the fish_.

And while this is probably the best case scenario to come out of such a jittery jarring statement, it’s still shatter matter crumbly. It’s Mavis’ very first ever loss. Something that was her’s and that meant something. Light switch flick blinked shut. 

Rich has to flimsy fetch the poor little guy with a scoop swoop net and listen to his daughter tell the other fish; ‘He’s gone, you guys,’ in the most solemn tone she has ever emitted. 

Mave makes him wait till Eddie gets home, with Uncle Stan in a snap shut tupperware dish they will most definitely also have to dolefully discard of later. 

They mumble tumble natter about Heaven for a little while, crisscross applesauce on the living room rug. Richie always likes to sit on the floor to be more grounded with his heavier thunder hail thoughts. Mavis seems to like it too. 

She knows her Grandpa Kaspbrak is up there; a few months ago she asked where Eddie’s Daddy or other Mom was, and they had that conversation. And she knows Sonia, albeit only a teeny bit, but that’s okay because that’s what works and that’s what’s fine and good for everybody’s hearts that are involved. Eddie calls his Mom on the first supple Sunday of every mellow met month, and sometimes she even asks proper and politely to talk with Mavis; quick quacky conversations about school or soccer or what’s for dinner or anything Mavie wants to tell her about. Sonia is a lot better at not pushing, and Eddie is naturally stellar at being a gosh darn great Father, and allowing that ebb and flow between the two ladies to first course through himself in careful concentrated doses. 

Richie thinks Mavis is beginning to sometimes need he and Eddie for different things. And he thinks that that is very okay. Knows that when he was younger there was some rough tough or swirly stuff he’d simply feel more comfort in facing with one parent first, or just at all. 

Eddie’s moral compass is confidently cosily comparable to that of his organic instinctive sense of direction. He _just knows_ what to do and where to go and has the niggliest knack of making you feel like, as long as he is tight right there with you, that absolutely everything is going to be perfectly okay. 

And Mavis feels soft and safe and sound with Richie too - undoubtably, most certifiably certainly - but it’s just that they aren’t complete without Eddie. Rich feels it too, so steadfast strong. Mavis can’t possibly undergo such a sticky sickly situation without him. Richie doesn’t want to either. 

Eddie is what keeps them afloat, he’s the one smooth sailing their boat, he always has been. 

When their cry calling canary is flying across the threshold into his grip, he effortlessly slips through the wacky waves and the sullen sharks and seals, and asks Mavis if she’d like to write some words about what she thinks and how she feels. 

They end up bundle huggy huddled up in the bathroom and have a small ceremony. There’s already candles lit, ‘cause Eddie likes them all over all year round come evening time and Richie always lights them up for him coming home.

“Uncle Stan, the fish, you were a really great fish.” Mavis’ teeny tiny hands hold the crumpled corners of the note they’d helped her compose. “You were the most _re-spon-sss-ible_ ,” She sweet shaken funny phonetically spells it out. “And never ate any other fishy’s food.” She looks lovely up to Richie to check she’s doing fine, and he sugar shoots her a shiny showy thumbs up.

“And yeah, you liked to swim in the corner by yourself, but I know you loved your friends. You were very like Uncle Stan, the man, my actual uncle, _ach-ually._ ” Richie torn tilts his head to the side and gnaws gnashy on his lip and tries super hard not to cry. 

“I hope you swim to see Daddy’s Daddy in Heaven, and give him a hug from us. I will miss you. Love, Mavis.” She smiles small, frumpy folds up the flimsy sheet of coloured paper and holds it to her chest, backing up into Eddie’s legs to look at Richie again, nodding. “You can flush him, Daddy.”

Eddie’s looking at him too. A beach-sand warm silent screenshot of Richie’s remembrance that Eddie looks at him the same way he does Eddie. For silk soft safety and cushion clad comfort and the shared light little life of laughs and love and even the shaky shudder times (especially those) too.

Richie makes easy peasy yummy chummy cheesy quesadillas for dinner, Mavis’ very merry favourite, and they eat on the sofa with pillows under their plates, smooshed into sizey sweaters and squished up against one another. Mavis makes Richie sing _the Splish Splash song_ four runs round come bath time, then, wrapped in a fleecy fuzz furry little robe, lays with her head in Eddie’s lap to have her bushy bunny hair braided while Richie tickles her toes, and switches mid-movie to snuggle cuddle up into Rich’s hips while Eddie holds her knees.

Richie’d sail through the sea in a flimsy wicker gingham lined basket if he knew he was doing it with them; ‘cause he knows they’d make it through. He’s got hope and faith in his heart and lining every back pocket and sweater sleeve and kissing him soft in every dream. 

It’s what keeps them flying all through the next year and their whole loved lives. 

Richie graduates in the Spring; Eddie bright and brass bold in the stands with their moony-eyed doll-faced daughter safe on his shoulders, both smiling in that starry way of theirs. Clapping and cheering and soaring sunny shiny. His Mom and Dad calling him their _’not so_ little bunny’, patting his shoulders and scruff scrubbing his scalp and kissing him dandelion wish swift on the teary temples. 

He and Mavis make signs and dance with big boogying obnoxious foam thumbs for Eddie’s graduation, scream singing _‘Go, Daddy!’_ so lark-song loud when he flip switches the little toggle of his cap and stares at them incredibly incredulously and Mags laughs through cries the entire time. 

And it’s bye-byes to baby-teeth and guppy gummy grins for one Miss Mavis Maggie Tozier, gaping gap for her tongue to peel poke through when she wiggle giggles. She gets five whole dollars from the Tooth Fairy the first time, and ten the next, because Richie and Eddie fell frumpy fast asleep on the sofa and had to mollify their mistake with an apology note from Twinkle The Pixie explaining that she had sprained her wing the night before and failed to fly high up to their apartment. Mavis totally bought it, but Richie still cried for three days. 

She rides her baby bike, no helping Dad hands, no steady stabilisers, all on her brave willing lonesome. Glazes over the cuts on her elbows Eddie cleaned up rickety lickity-split when telling her Aunts and Uncles about it. Writes poems with Ben to recite after Sunday dinners and listens to Stan babble about birds from her own beautiful branch and bakes with Mike and Bill and goes on coffee dates with Bev and Patty wearing little hats and laced up booties like a cutie-patootie.

Rich is playing comedy shows in huddled homey clubs and writing the treatment for his very own sitcom, working at a big production company, constant graceful graft in his craft, just waiting for someone to read his almost finished pilot and think _‘wowee’_. The New York Times are eating Eddie and his fancy man suits and quick cut brain right up, and they’re both bubble bathing in pouring rains of pride and passion.

Mavis meets new funny frilly friends at school and joins her first-grade soccer team and all the Losers make every single game, rain or shine. Richie hug holds Eddie back from heckling the ref and Eddie wipes his tears when Mavie scores a goal. And when Mavis breaks her arm, slipping in the Summer sun, Eddie cries and cries, and Richie holds him just as tight. 

She starts back soccer after six weeks and she’s fine and Eddie’s fine and this is _their_ life, their own _new_ rules of family and fear and snug safety after storms. 

Tilly the tabby cat’s surprise pregnancy wooly warm welcomes a new inhabitant to the Tozier home and their fateful faithful family as they know it; their own jolly ginger kitty-cat: Kitty. Named, of course, by Mavis. 

Come Christmas, Mavie’s got her squashed into a tulle tutu with jingle-bell balls bundled bobbly round her collar and a reindeer headband bashing every couch corner of Stan and Patty’s new apartment. Babysitting the kitten before Pat’s bubble belly pops and they have their very own little human baby. 

They got their own Tilly bred kitty too, since Stan, Bev and Ben decided to keep Til in the home she’d always known and Stan had been missing her terribly, and _whaddaya know_ , they let Mavis name _their_ kitten too. Alas, Macaroni Cheese lives a lavish lush life at the Blum-Uris’. He and Kitty are scratch-post snuggling when Rich, Eds and Mavie bid them adieu.

They’re taking a scarf-swaddled, dream-dunked Mavis to see Santa Claus at a garden centre grotto, because Eddie pleas it will be decidedly less germy than that of a Mall Santa, and the costume will be much more authentic looking. He’ll still promptly dunk her outfit in the laundry as soon as they arrive home later, and soapy spongey scrub-a-dub-rub her down from her head to her toes, but Richie gives him this one. And every other. 

Santa sits gleeful in his velvety red snowy blanketed glory amidst a dozen trees and waits wise for the little girl with the big beating heart, ruddy and running dash darling fast up the path to cross her hands politely as she leans on his knee and he asks for her name. 

“I’m Mavis.” She purses those pouty pink lips and Eddie looks so hilariously happy as he smiles dizzy whiz wide beside him, just watching her. 

“Ah, yes, Mavis. A _Songbird._ ” Santa sighs joyous jubilantly, cheery cherry cheeks; Eddie was right, this guy looks like the real deal. Richie never doubted him anyway.

Mavis lights up twinkly sprinkly like the blinky lights on their tree and sings, “Yes! A Songbird, that’s me.” And tugs teeny on the skittish sewn lining of her sparkly red puffy dress when he asks _‘What ever would you like for Christmas this year, Mavis?’_

“Well, there’s quite a little bit on my list, Santa. But I have one main, main wish.” Richie painted her fingernails to match her special dress, and they glitter gleamy in the yellow candle lit coloured light, knuckles pulling at one another tight. 

“I would really like a baby brother or sister.”

Richie stops short still for a mellow murmured moment in time. Thinks of tufty tendril curls and butterfly hair clips and buttery eyes like cookie chocolate chips. Hula-hoop loopy laughs and dinky small hands watering windowsill plants and baths and Splish Splash and sunflower stem armed hugs round the thighs and Fall leaf leave fleeting kisses on the sidewalk by school. 

Karaoke competitions in the car and birdie calls from the backseat. _‘Love, love you’_ s, silly strange fussy funny dinners and gosh darned spider costumes.

Caring and kind and bright. Funny and clever and light. Their shortcake Songbird chickadee, bug birdie babyface. 

Richie would take a hundred more, if they were anything like her.

He looks to Eddie, with his puppy eyes puddle wide, and decides that whatever’s waiting for them has been wished on and kissed by the stars. 

And they’ll face it together, like they always do.

**Author's Note:**

> setting it up for a part three? OF COURSE I AM. i simply cannot leave them just yet. 
> 
> thank you SO MUCH for reading!!! i hope that if you are coming from songbird, that this lived up to or exceeded any expectations. as always, your comments make my soul hug my heart. and i am hugging your hearts with my own!!!! THANK YOU AGAIN. <3


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